


i and i

by relationshipcrimes



Series: entomology [2]
Category: Hollow Knight (Video Game)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-20 05:58:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17616821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/relationshipcrimes/pseuds/relationshipcrimes
Summary: The Pure Vessel models for its own memorial statue.





	i and i

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aryashi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aryashi/gifts).



The Pure Vessel models for its own memorial. The statue, carved of a single slab of rock, is to be displayed at the heart of the City of Tears, and due to its size and weight cannot be moved to the White Palace for its crafting. It must be made in the city square under the pouring rain itself.

“Yes, I believe we’ve enough raw material to capitalize on your impressive height, Your Highness,” says the sculptor, touching the base of the slate-grey statue with more reverence than she gives any one of the pure-white royal retainers. “Now, I’ve already drawn up the plans with only your shoulder armor, but upon review, it’s my opinion that the statue be constructed with a cloak drawn around your form.”

Because the Pure Vessel is too lanky to be truly inspiring in person, yes. It’s aware. The Pure Vessel very deliberately does not hunch over its own scrawny chest, which is no concern for a Pure Vessel, who has no opinions on such matters, or any opinions at all.

“Your thoughts, Your Highness?” the sculptor asks.

The Pure Vessel looks down at her. The rain drums along their shell, steady and firm. (This is the second time the Pure Vessel has ever been to the City of Tears, and, accordingly, the second time it has ever felt the rain. The first was when it was almost too young to remember. Its Father had come with it, then.) The water seeps into its joints, into the hollows of its eyes. The city’s tears drip from its half-crown.

The sculptor glances at her assistant. The royal retainers are having a giggle at the sculptor’s expense.

“It looks alive, but it’s no more a bug than the stone you carve,” says a royal retainer at last, now that she’s had her fun. The other retainer nods emphatically; the accompanying Kingsmoulds don’t even move.

“I don’t carve statues of inanimate objects,” says the sculptor immediately.

“The Pale King Himself–” a second retainer begins, outraged.

“The Pure Vessel is  _animate_ , isn’t it?” interrupts the first. “It moves. It’ll pose however you like. If you want to see it in motion, simply tell it so.”

“It’s not the same,” the sculptor insists.

“Prima donnas,” says the first retainer to the second.

“I am  _the finest_ ,” says the sculptor archly, “at what I do.”

“You’d think the finest could rise to any challenge. Particularly for the service of the Pale King.”

The sculptor’s eyes are narrowed to slits, but now she’s sizing up the Pure Vessel. “A challenge, it certainly is,” she mutters, half to herself, lapsing into the royal decree from the King: “‘A visage that will live in the heart of the city and the heart of the citizens…’”

_…and endure all trials throughout the whole passage of time. Eternal as the city’s tears, and eternal as Hallownest. Its construction must be flawless. It may not be constructed from individual parts, but must be kept as whole, unbroken stone…_

Rote memorization is expected of a Pure Vessel. An ability to regurgitate information can hardly be called thinking.

“I shall carve it with a cloak, first,” says the sculptor at last. “And if it needs modifications, more stone can be removed to give the body form.”

“Of course,” says the second retainer.

“If it gets us out of this horrible rain,” says the first.

“Head up, then, Your Highness,” says the sculptor to the Pure Vessel, taking charge handily. “Let me have a good look at you.”

The Pure Vessel tilts its head up, where itself, still in stone, unhewn, looks back down at it. The sculptor begins to tap along the rock face, seeking the fault lines, prying the excess and the unwanted from it. “The rivulets in the cloak will help the stone pores breathe with the water erosion,” the sculptor mutters to herself. Rainwater at its birth, rainwater through its long vigil through the City of Tears. The statue will never know what it’s like to be dry. Water courses across the stone carapace, tapping like fingers along the statue’s craggy, inelegant faces; kind touches, warmth soaking it through, breathing in the scent of rainfall where no one will see.


End file.
